Category Archives: Recovery

Bad

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Some  days I wish I was back getting whipped by my Daddy Dom, tied to a tree ball gagged and blind folded wearing nothing but a pair of stilettos.

Why?

Things seemed easier, everything was so clearly defined.  I didn’t have to make too many decisions.   If I overate, there were immediate consequences; he beat me so hard I couldn’t stand.  He was like a sadistic drill instructor that was up my ass   24/7.   He probably wasn’t helping to manage my eating disorder out of genuine caring; it was self-serving because he wanted me to remain in a slender body .  After all, he was superficial and shallow and had I gained weight he would have dumped me in a heartbeat.

He told me he loved me but I knew somewhere deep inside me that it was a lie.   I hurt but I ended up being okay with it because on some core level I didn’t feel deserving of love.

So the relationship ended up being based almost entirely upon sex.  Which wasn’t all bad.  Right? I mean sex is good.  Even bad sex is good.  Well, until he started telling me his fantasies were about wanting to abduct teenage girls and torture them.  Yeah, that kinda ruined things.   It’s kinda that oh shit moment where you realize it’s a lot bigger than just your relationship going belly up or the loss of your integrity.

My fiancé is sober almost 3 years from alcohol.  He doesn’t beat me for overeating.  He’s not a Daddy dominant.   He doesn’t tie me to trees and cane my tits til their purple.  When I met him he didn’t even know what “rimming” was.    We are a vanilla couple.  He tells me he loves me but deep down I don’t know if I believe it because at that same core level I still don’t believe I am deserving of love.

What is the old saying, you can take the girl out of the city; but you can never really take the city out of the girl.

It seems like whether I am paired with a sociopathic pig or with a decent man the end result is the same, my feelings about myself have not changed over time.  My long-standing operating belief system says “You are bad”.   It is preventing me from any real chance at intimacy.

While I with the ex-Dom I knew that he was a bad man.  I felt bad about myself and suffered a great deal at his hands but I longed for something better.  However,  I figured this was as good as it gets for someone who is broken like me.  In the end I resigned myself that we were just better paired for each together because we were both broken.  He in his sociopathy and I in my victimization.

At present, that the proverbial good guy is finally in my life and I can’t shake off this feeling that I am still not good enough.  Which makes me throw walls up, I don’t want him to get too close.  It’s like I don’t want to infect him with my “broken” poison.   At times when my walls aren’t strong enough to keep him out, I resort to direct self-sabotage methods which are more aggressive,   Mostly verbal attacks.  This causes him to emotionally distance and pull away.   He doesn’t know it’s because I fear he will somehow get contaminated just by being involved with me too closely.

It all started so far back in childhood.  This brokenness.   The feeling unlovable, like I was just “bad.”  I suppose it was a product of the incest, physical abuse, emotional abuse, and verbal abuse.  How much does one have to rehash this shit in therapy before they can be “done”?

I’m just so done with seeing a shrink.   There’s only so much you can tell, the same horror stories without them becoming too activating and re-traumatizing.

I’m coming to the conclusion that maybe some people like me, just stay broken.  I mean, maybe we just do.  Or maybe I just need to take a flight out of the country and just need a geographical break from my life.  Like that movie,” Eat, Pray, Love”.    

Okay.  First pay off  $30,000 in credit card debt.  Then travel abroad.  Then get unbroken.  Find spiritual peace.  In that order.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Holes

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I usually dread when I wake up in the morning.  Mostly because my thoughts begin to race as soon as cognition begins.   Fears trickle in slowly at first, a few drops at a time.  Then it’s like a deluge, as if a faucet was turned on in my head.  Will things ever be “good” I wonder?  Will I ever feel happy and free?  Will I ever love myself? Will I ever accept myself? Can I ever forgive myself?  Then depression  sets in.

I lead a very solitary life.  Most days the only people I see are my kids and my fiancé.   I isolate a lot because of how bad I look.

The weight gain from this food addiction has made me want to hide from the world.  I look like bloody hell.   My teenager tells me this on occasion.  Half of me is hurt and and half of me is proud that he tells the truth.  Then he says he’s sorry when he sees my eyes look down at the floor.    I’m not sure whether to believe he’s sorry for what he said,  I think he just feels bad that it hurt me.

It’s difficult to find the motivation to get up in the morning and face the day.  I have a lot of anxiety about all the things that are going wrong in my life and all the things that are about to go wrong.   I want to reflexively face all of them the same way, with food.

Looking in the mirror is not something I want to do anymore because I feel a lot of shame about how I look.    I’m ashamed about it but also know I’ve done this to myself.  So don’t feel I have any right to wallow in pity.

I am destroying my body for food but still can’t stop no matter how hard I try.   It’s so fucked up.    Maybe the answer is to be locked up somewhere for 28 days.

Talking in therapy about it just isn’t doing jack shit.    The therapist is nice but she is ill equipped to help me.  I end up telling her jokes to pass the time.  I already know that my fucked up childhood is where my unhealthy relationship with food began.  I was alone a lot as a kid, desperate for love and attention.  I didn’t get enough of either.  Instead I got abused.   Holes developed in my heart.

As a child I remember family members giving me yummy treats when I was having a hard day.  The same family I wanted to love me.  It was then an unhealthy relationship with food was born.

At some later point rather incidentally, I found myself turning to food when I became upset,  for comfort.  I guess it was like a vicarious way of having a connection with them through eating the food they gave me.  Their presence was unpredictable.   The food that was in my house however, was always at the ready.

It’s been decades of livimg this way.

Eating is what I want to do all day long.   So I eat whenever I can.  If people are around and watching, I will sneak it.   Food always makes me happy.    It helps me forget about all the shame, anxiety, and depression I have in my life.  It’s like it takes me to a better place even if it’s just for a little while.   Everything seems like it will be okay but it’s only lasts as long as I’m eating.   As soon as I stop the bad feelings return, plus a stomachache.   At the same time I know that food addiction is part of the reason why my life is like this.  The more I eat, the worse it gets.

Every addict has the voice of an angel or getting healthier and a devil or staying in the addiction on either shoulder.   So far, the food addiction is winning.

I know that I am killing myself with food.    I don’t want to get sicker but I’m losing hope with this battle.

 

 

 


From the whip to the Word

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“Do not love the world or anything in the world. If anyone loves the world, love for the Father is not in them. For everything in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life—comes not from the Father but from the world. The world and it’s desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever.”

1 John 2: 15-17 NIV

 

I’ve been watching “A&E’s “Leah Remini: Scientology and the Aftermath” for the past 3 seasons.  Although I’ve never belonged to a formal established cult per se, I understand about Stockholm syndrome, brainwashing, love-bombing, gas-lighting and other techniques that are employed by cults.  Remini frequently talks on the show about how when she was in Scientology she truly believed in it, and also thought that people on the outside weren’t as evolved.   This had much to do with being submersed in a subculture that is insular in nature, designed to promote itself and keep its members in.

When I first entered into a relationship with my ex, who I later discovered was a sociopath and sexual sadist, he convinced me to “try out” BDSM.   The way he introduced the concept was cunning.  He said that of course he would be my Dominant and the one in charge and that I would be his submissive and the one responsible for attending to his needs. That was never off-putting as I am a very caring person and it’s in my nature to want to be a care-taker.  The thing that he pitched to me is that I would have complete control over what we did.  The ever so clever ‘illusion of control’.  Nothing would happen that I didn’t want.

This, as I would later find out was a flagrant lie.   As time pressed forward he never respected my no.   I would come to find out I didn’t even have one.   He did as he pleased.   Think “50 shades of Gray” but with Ted Bundy cast in the leading  role.

I don’t think I would have entered into it at all, save for the fact that I was desperate to feel loved.  He was saying all the right things at just the right time.  I was in an extremely vulnerable place.  I had just come out of a very physically and emotionally abusive relationship.  My son’s father had been cheating on me which had paralleled nearly our entire relationship, I lost part of my cervix due to his cheating.  He had beaten me so badly once, my tooth had gone through my lip.  He had locked me in rooms and refused to let me out to use the bathroom. He had locked me out of the house in the winter in freezing temperatures without a coat.   He threw a razor at my head leaving me bleeding, crawling out of the house searching for help from passing cars on the street.  I ended up with staples in my head to suture the wound.

Looking back when I left my son’s father, it was as if I was swimming in shark infested waters with a fresh wound. I was a beacon for a sociopath like the sadist narc with whom I became involved. .

Somewhere during my relationship with my son’s father is when I had stopped going to church and praying.  I felt so lost.   I felt so abandoned.  When I met the narcopath I was like a deer in headlights.  He appealed to my intellect as he told me, “this may sound crazy but an alternative relationship when done right can,  because of the risky situations it entails,  actually forge a stronger and closer bond between a man and a woman than a typical “vanilla” relationship ever could.”  It sounded so good! Closer I thought? Well slap me silly then sign me up for that.  Me the girl who has been starving for love and attention her whole life.  It almost sounded like the promise of coming home.   He encouraged me to do my research online.  I did.   It seemed like it may actually work at the theoretical level.

Boy was I wrong.   I will have to repost the horror show of what happened during that relationship at another time.

Like Leah Remini while she was in Scientology, when I was living the BDSM “lifestyle” via this D/s relationship I believed that it was a more self-actualized way of being.   A small part of me actually felt superior to others.   That I had discovered that by giving into hedonism, and accepting carnal, visceral pleasures that I had reached a higher plane of understanding somehow.   That I had let go of the entrapment and bondage of guilt and shame that my Catholic upbringing had pummeled into me.

It has taken 7 years of distance from that BDSM D/s lifestyle, therapy, emptiness and utter despair to realize some things:

One, the so called bondage I thought I was leaving behind of shame and guilt,  I ended up trading for actual leather straps being chained to this sicko’s bed getting whipped, caned, spanked, or otherwise beaten so that he could get an erection.  He was sexually impotent without the use of violence as he was a sexual predator.

The truth is the guilt and shame was always there in me because the goodness of God had never left me and I felt ashamed about what I was doing as I knew God would be disappointed.  I was also disappointed in myself.   I secretly wanted a better life but never believed I deserved it.

Secondly, I was not better than vanilla and/ or God fearing people.  Quite the opposite, I was falling deeper into sin and sexual immorality but just could not see it at that time.  Many in that subculture are atheists, agnostics or living very compartmentalized lives; it is my belief they don’t see themselves as sinning.   A sort of denial I guess.

Finally,  the good news isn’t too good to be true.   Even a sinner like me can change.   That sound of the promise of coming home?  That has to do with salvation.  No one but God knows who will be saved but Scripture is pretty clear on one fact:

”Jesus answered, I am the way and the truth and the life.  No one comes to the Father except through me. “ 

John 14:6 NIV 

It has taken a long time for me to see more clearly, I am beginning to see more clearly.  I have a long long way to go.  What I find ironic is that I was partly on the right track.  I should have been on my knees, but in prayer.  I should have been being a submissive, but to the Lord Jesus Christ.  Jesus can save me from despair, He can heal me from my sorrow, He can show me an enduring love like no one here in this world can.  Reconciling and restoring the strong relationship with Christ that I once had is the best decision I have decided to make.

I’ve been looking for love in all the wrong places.   God was always there ready and willing to love me.

 

 

 


The Jig Is Up

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Okay. So I totally blew the diet. I’ve been freebasing flour and sugar for like a month now, easily.

I’m not sure I have the wherewithal to try again to get back on the proverbial wagon.

I’ve noticed a few changes.  I mean other than the obvious weight gain one would expect.  I have also noticed my mood could best be described as “bitch” on steroids.   I have a short list of at least 5 people with which I’d like to take a bat to their head like a piñata.

I’m pretty sure this isn’t good thing.

Oh and salad? Yeah all the shit to make one putrefied at the back of the fridge 3 weeks ago.  I ate pumpkin pie for breakfast and dinner today.   I think I need a fucking intervention but it doesn’t look good for me.  Not with the bat and all….


Brokenness

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Growing up I had many fears.   They were not just ordinary kid fears.  For there were things which lurked in the dark.  Things from which my parents could not protect me.   I often felt petrified particularly at night.   The nights were long and at times seemed to stretch out interminably.

To make matters worse the landscape of my daytime was such that I was rather invisible.   Usually well-behaved, I got lost in the shuffle of the chaos and discord,  the cacophony of our home.  I needed comfort after the unspeakable terror of the night.  I often fantasized about being rescued by a benevolent parent archetype.  Someone who would recognize my hidden suffering and rescue me from the profane which my parents could not see.

So ever since I was small I can remember seeking out bits of care and affection hoping to stitch together enough to survive.    I have a crystal clear memory of cutting a bunch of lavender colored lilacs with a pair of scissors from the bush outside my bedroom window.   I brought them to school as a gift for my 3rd grade teacher, with some tin foil wrapped at the base.  I was hoping my good deed would earn me a bit of her praise.  Wishing she might look favorably upon me.   I was starving, aching for somebody, anybody,  to tell me that I was a good girl.

That desperation has not changed much since then; only my age has.

Even when I have managed to capture that attention and validation from a man as an adult,  that I had so desperately sought back then, I cannot hold onto the warmth I feel from receiving it for very long.  Because my early childhood trauma left me with a hole somewhere, all of the warmth and goodness I am able to take in slips away into the darkness leaving me feeling empty and alone.

I have been left in a constant unending cycle of seeking attention and validation from others.  The process itself is exhausting, time-consuming, and always ends the same.   I must begin it all over.

Trying to figure out how to construct the emotional glue with which to fill this invisible hole has proven a lot harder than I ever imagined.  For I don’t know where the hole exists within myself to patch and the spackle is not readily available at the local hardware store.

I still feel like a little girl inside, wanting that care and reassurance that I am lovable and good.  There is the sobering realization that it’s all going to have to come from me.  I’m going to have to be that voice I always needed.

I don’t want to shoulder this.  I want a different way.  I continue to struggle with accepting that there will never be anyone to rescue me.   There won’t be any grown up to tell me that I’m good.  Because I’m not 7 years old anymore, even if I feel like it on the inside.

It sucks being broken.   Dealing with kid feelings, kid fears, in a grown up body.

Kid Fears – The Indigo Girls – 1988

Pain from pearls, hey little girl
How much have you grown?
Pain from pearls, hey little girl
Flowers for the ones you’ve known
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Secret staircase (secret staircase), running high (running high)
You had a hiding place
Secret staircase (secret staircase), running low (running low)
They all know, now you’re inside
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Kid fears
Skipping stones, we know the price now
Any sin will do
How much further, if you can spin
How much further, if you are smooth
Are you on fire (are you on fire)
From the years? (from the years)
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Replace the rent with the stars above
Replace the need with love
Replace the anger with the tide
Replace the ones, the ones, the ones, that you love
The ones that you love
Are you on fire
From the years?
What would you give for your
Kid fears?
Are you on fire
From the years
What would you give for your
Kid fears
What would you give for your
Kid fears
What would you give for your
Kid fears
You can’t feel
The kids
Songwriters: Amy Elizabeth Ray / Emily Ann Saliers

 


Land, Fire, Sea.

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When our partner has been unfaithful it is a shocking betrayal we don’t expect.  If they then leave the relationship, we are forced to grieve.   This is another painful betrayal which can blindside us.  They are still alive and as such grieving them becomes what I would categorize as a different sort of “complicated grief”, no less painful than a bereaved partner.

We are not only grieving our partner but also the loss of the life we had together and the loss of dreams of the future that will no longer be.  It is a multi-layered loss which is often minimized by well-meaning people trying to help by pointing out facts meant to quiet our pain like,”wow, what a such and such!!! .”  and “you just dodged a huge bullet.

Complicated Grief or CG – from Mayo Clinic.org: “losing a loved one is one of the most distressing and, unfortunately, common experiences people face. Most people experiencing normal grief and bereavement have a period of sorrow, numbness, and even guilt and anger. Gradually these feelings ease, and it’s possible to accept loss and move forward.

For some people, feelings of loss are debilitating and don’t improve even after time passes. This is known as complicated grief, sometimes called persistent complex bereavement disorder. In complicated grief, painful emotions are so long lasting and severe that you have trouble recovering from the loss and resuming your own life.

I believe that my experience and those of others who experienced infidelity and were then abandoned by their partner, CG could aptly describe the same type of grieving process.

I decided that my ex-narcopath’s idealization phase was just that, a way to reel me into the relationship on his fishing line.  However, the feelings and love for him were real for me.  Just because they were contrived on his end only meant that I felt the loss and pain and grief of losing what I thought I had.

I eventually came to accept that I had fallen in love with an illusion.   That took time to arrive to that understanding and even longer to accept.  In the end, I was grieving the man I thought I had, not the man I actually had.  This cognitive dissonance slowed my grieving process down.   For as I would start to become angry at him and go through the grieving process, I would quickly remember how wonderful he had treated me in the beginning and get hopeful again that maybe we could reconcile.  Then I would have to begin the grief process all over again.  Not to mention him staying in touch with me, one weak moment of me communicating with him and I was right back to missing him only to be cast aside and wounded by him again.

It came in cycles.  Waves as it were.  Until the waves came closer and closer in succession until they were on top of each other colliding.

Then, I was faced with despair and nothing the grief process itself.  But how? How does one grieve someone who is still alive?

I observed and compared people who lost partners to death and noted that as a victim of infidelity who was dumped, I  was lacking ritual and ceremony in my grieving process.  I then set out to find find personal ways to make my grief feel more real and tangible.

I first visited many online forums and connected with lots of people who had experienced the same thing that I had.   I listened to their stories and advice.

Once I accepted that it needed the be over for ME….(it had long since been over for him) I decided to take all his fake-ass love letters and put them in a wooden box.   Then I took said box with his photo in it and dug a hole into the woods.   I placed a medium sized rock over the pseudo-grave with a simple black symbol I had painted on the rock which was meaningful to me.

I wrote a short eulogy and read it out loud expressing my feelings of betrayal for the sweet man that I would miss.  I said in closing he never had existed except in my heart.  I wrote it for the man I thought I had, for he was the man for which I was crying. .   I had my best friend there to bear witness to my process.  I found this helpful and was pretty sure by then she was ready to smack a shovel over his head and put him into a box with the sheer amount of hours I cried on the phone to her.

I have heard other women getting lighter fluid and torching their love letters.  Still others ripping them into bits and throwing them into the ocean.  I knew of one other woman where threw her letters into a trash dumpster and then taking a photo and sending it that the ex.   Another    man simply bound his letters up and returned them via mail no return address.

Which method you choose matters not.  The important thing is that the process empowers you and brings you closer to healing.  There’s always the option to do nothing at all.   Simply sit be with your pain.

There is no right or wrong way to grieve.  There is no blueprint and certainly no handout anyone gives you for this kind of off the charts level of fucked up pain.   You will have to do it your own way.   At your cadence.   On your terms.

You may grieve before your ready but not before you can.  Freedom really has always been inside of you.    You can do this.  You will be okay.

 

 


In the Big house

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In addition to the clinical diagnosis of OCD I received at 19, I know I have body dysmorphia as well.  This is where when you look in the mirror you see a very distorted body image of yourself which is not accurate.  They are not mutually exclusive but can be comorbid diagnoses.   I know I look horrible, but when I point out others who I believe to which I look similar; they say “no way, that it’s simply not true.”  That I am projecting and exaggerating my fears rather than reality .   That is what I see? It isn’t a projection!

So I’m nearly 30 days in on this diet and it feels like I’m stuck in some sort of TV episode of ‘60 Days In’ meets ‘My 600 lb.life.‘

I’m not sure how I can keep doing this same old same old, ad nauseum, ad infinitum?  The old me lived for being alone in a room with my junk food freebasing a box of Little Debbies.    Now? Exercise is supposed to blow my dress back.  Well guess what.  It doesn’t.  It’s work.  And those neural pathways haven’t been created yet so it feels like drudgery.

Something weird has shifted though.  Other than eating Cheetos for that one discrete time, I seem to have developed the old food aversions that I had back a child.  Where I became so emaciated the doctor threatened to put a g-tube in me.

Fears related to food are cropping up all over again.  The same exact fears that caused my anorexia to begin at around age 10-11 years old.   I have severe OCD and get skeeved out pretty easily by a lot of foods.  I am an extremely picky eater.   If I cannot eat something that tastes palatable, I often opt to starve and just skip meals altogether.

It seems my dream of finding a better more healthy relationship with food is slipping away fast.

I feel frustrated.  I don’t know what belies this whole eating disorder and my therapist is not very helpful or insightful one bit.

I hope everyone out there who is on their own diet is able to stick with whatever they are doing.   Send me encouraging thoughts and prayers if you would!

‘Cause right now I’ve got the jailhouse blues.

 


I cheated

I was fantasizing all night about it and by 11:00 pm I couldn’t take it anymore.  I found myself walking as if in a dream-state to the kitchen to get a snack.

But wait! Snacks are not allowed on my diet you say?  You would be correct.  I cheated.   I cheated with my favorite salty crunchy snack.  Cheetos.

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The Cheeto Tiger with his dark glasses, and his brightly colored packaging like a light in the night, I knew he was a devil in disguise.  He and Little Debbie are in cahoots trying to seduce me.  The bastards.  When you add Mrs. Smith into the mix it becomes an unholy union.

I instantly felt guilty.  Thoughts like,”you worthless piece of shit you can’t do anything right”  and “wow you really fucked that up good” are some thoughts which came through my mind with ease.   Now luckily I didn’t devour a whole bag or anything.  But I shouldn’t have had ANY, hello.

The veggies just are losing their luster.  They just bore me now.   It’s starting to feel like government rations.   I need some excitement in my mouth.  I’m sick of bland chicken and beef.

Ugh.  Why in the hell can’t I be like one of these hardcore extremist dieters who never slip up and lose a shit ton of weight in only 2 months?  Well of course I lack any sort of discipline, that goes without saying.  I mean, I was hoping to uncover some other less obvious reasons?

Hopefully this was just a one-night-stand with this junk food .  Hopefully this doesn’t turn into a full-blown affair.

Stay tuned!!!!


Minecrack

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So often times when you are trying to get rid of one addiction, you need to find a healthier substitute to fill that empty space.

I’ve found something which helps me to distract my mental obsession with the food porn, which is everywhere.   It’s like a hamster that runs around on a little wheel in my head.

My defense against the food addict hamster on its wheel,  is Minecraft.

It started out over two weeks ago, I hopped on the PS4 and it’s now gained traction to where it’s now becoming dare I say another thing that I binge on.

I’ve built a penthouse, with a pool, an underground bunker with built-ins for all my chests for my “mined” ore, a nether portal, and use my map to explore all kinds of biomes.  I’m rocking this tween game like a boss.

It’s so addictive, it should be called Minecrack.  Mojang is making a killing.  But hey, as long as I’m staying on the straight and narrow it’s all good.

I’m pretty sure I have a highly addictive personality.  Ahem….

Gotta run now, back to the mines.

 

 


Addiction

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Photo:  my rosary beads 

Anyone who has ever struggled with addiction knows all too well the viscous cycle of it all.

Every fiber of you craves the thing to which you are addicted.   Your brain tells you quietly that it will kill you, yet the voice of the addiction is louder yelling at you to give in.

Every attempt to stop leaves you  struggling in a brutal tug of war.  The internal voice is always telling you to give in:

“You know you will feel better if you do it” 

“You deserve a break.”

”You know it’s gonna be so good…”

There’s a seductive quality to addiction.  I believe that there is perhaps an evil force which belies the whole process.   Trying to ensnare victims back in.

If for some reason you give in and relapse, you tell yourself:

”Its okay, you can just start over tomorrow,” as a way to assuage your guilt.

If you manage to to relapse in the middle of a week, you tell yourself,

”its okay, you can make a fresh start on Monday.”

Then you get so deep into it, you start telling yourself stuff like,”I’ll start over next month.”  

Then comes the realization when you can’t stop after a whole month after really trying several times, “I just haven’t  tried hard enough or I have to work up to it and get into the recovery mindset.”

Then after total agonizing defeat, still a persistent denial busts in that,”I could quit if I want to, I just don’t want to right now, I like what I am doing.” 

What the fuck?!

Did I just hear my thoughts right.  Yup.  I could quit if I want to but I don’t want to?  Buddy, my ass has been done whooped by this addiction but not I’m “ready?”  That’s precious.

I think only a true addict can indentify with these insane thoughts.

I’ve been living with addiction and relapse for a decade at least.  I’m in this shit up to my eye balls.

It occurred to me today That the one huge part I’ve been leaving out of the mix is steps 1, 2, and 3.  Ha!

It’s always white knuckling.  Who wants to admit defeat? Be powerless, And then surrender?  Not a lot signing up for that shit.  We do it because we get sick and tired of being of being sick and tired.

Time to get on my knees again and ask for God’s help.

 

 

 


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